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Wylie had been gone a long time. The girl slid from her spot on the sofa next to her mother, who was rocking back and forth and moaning, “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

Was her mother right? Had her father found them? If so, he would kill them all. Maybe, she thought, if she talked to her father, Wylie could get away. Find help. Carrying her flashlight, the girl slipped from the sofa and tiptoed to the kitchen just as Wylie flew through the back door, slammed it shut, and pressed her back against it as if trying to keep it closed.

“Is it my dad?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Wylie said. “It’s him. Grab a chair from over there.” She nodded toward the kitchen table.

Josie dragged the chair over to Wylie and watched as she tipped the chair on two legs and slid the top rail beneath the doorknob.

Her father was somewhere outside, the girl thought. Only a few inches of wood stood between them.

“He’ll get in,” the girl said resignedly. “He’ll get in.”

“No,” Wylie told her breathing heavily. “I won’t let him. And if he gets through the door, he won’t get past me. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

Then there was silence. They stood there for a long time, listening, waiting. Nothing came.

Wylie turned toward the girl. “Your mom’s name is Becky, isn’t it?”

The girl froze. Did she trust Wylie? You’ll know, her mother had told her. You’ll know.

“Please,” Wylie said. “I have to know. Is her name Becky?”

The little girl nodded and Wylie covered her eyes and wept.